A Flame into Being
by GranthamGal
Summary: Cora happens upon some new reading material that has been mysteriously left in the library. Featuring passages from D. H. Lawrence's "Lady Chatterley's Lover." Some minor references to s6!
1. Chapter 1

Cora set her needlework down onto the sofa beside her and then pushed back against the cushion with a quiet sigh. The clock, ticking methodically atop the mantle, informed her that it was just after three o'clock. She'd been fiddling with the threads for hours now, and had the pinpricks on her fingers to show for it. But it would be hours yet until the gong and, staring down at the pastel flowers and leaves woven into soft fabric, Cora knew that she needed a diversion.

The house was quiet as she stood and stretched her legs. Robert had been gone since the early morning hours, off to York for a check-in with the doctors and then a meeting with the banks over some tenant issue. Mary and Tom, too, had been gone all day; their days were most often filled now with the work that Robert once did. The change was odd, certainly, but made it easier for Cora to breathe, knowing that Robert's daily tasks had been dramatically reduced. And Edith was in London once again, this time for some editorial meeting, or something.

Wandering toward the bookshelves, Cora thought briefly of trekking up to the nursery. That idea was quickly tamped down, though, when she remembered that Nanny had taken the children for a ride into Ripon.

Face to face with the leather-bound tomes, Cora's eyes trailed over the myriad books, looking for something, _anything_ that looked of remote interest. _Pride and Prejudice. A Study in Scarlet. The Count of Monte Cristo. Villette. The Antiquary._

Her and Robert's books had long ago been intermingled, though it was clear—even now—which works belonged to whom. They'd had long arguments over the years of how best to organize it all. When Cora had first arrived at Downton, a sparkling diamond and golden band on her finger and trunks full of dresses and books and life all laid behind her, Violet had _kindly_ allotted her a shelf in the far corner of the library. It had of course been too small, and for the first several months of her new habitation Cora had slowly but systematically shuttled books from beneath her bed to places on other shelves in the library that had space available. Like a thief in the night she would slide the novels, all new editions embossed in beautiful golds with tight leather covers, gifts from her parents, between the ancient books, silently ingratiating herself into this foreign world one novel at a time.

Eventually, Robert had caught her out. The memory of him stumbling upon her in the library one late night, moonlight dancing across the floor, gliding over his features; it still warmed her, the memory of how he had grinned, amused to find her kneeling on the floor, shifting large travel guides to Egypt around as she sought a place for her Shakespeare. They'd sat on the floor together that night, Robert explaining how the books were generally organized, and showing her some of his favorites. He'd diplomatically pulled a few older, long-sitting books from a prime location and had helped her to reach the new place, carefully arranging the books she'd brought down. And even now, even still, her chest tingled at the thought of his smile when he'd suggested she help him hide the now displaced books that belonged to his mother. They'd carried them to a far-off linen cupboard, whispering conspiratorially about a more efficient system of book organization that they'd already dreamed up together.

Cora closed her eyes briefly, holding onto the memory for just a moment longer, and then let it go. She looked up at the books before her once more and pursed her lips. For all the organizing, buying, and arguing that remained in their past, there was rather a lack of new reading material, and none of the usual favorites seemed to call out to her. Turning her attention to a small stack of books that rested on the table nearest to the shelves, Cora took a few steps closer to investigate.

It had been months—possibly even a year—since Pattenson had been to Downton. He'd come to sort out some things for the Russian visit, but the library had been rather neglected of his attentions. The pile, Cora realized, was full of books that needed to be shelved. The first that she picked up and thumbed through was a newer copy of _Grimm's Fairy Tales—_ somethingCora rather hoped no one was reading to the children. The second was some sort of farming manual that made her nose wrinkle in displeasure, careful illustrations of various machinery jumping up at her from the pages.

The third book in the pile had a plain brown cover, soft, with some sort of bird etched into the middle. Turning it onto its side, Cora found no authorial inscription. She flipped open the cover with her thumb and reached for a slip of paper that, having been pressed between the pages, threatened to slip out.

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing on behalf of Inky Stephensen and Mandrake Press. It is our hope that you will re-consider your decision to refrain from reviewing this new novel by the most esteemed D. H. Lawrence. Although we stand by our assertion that the novel must remain unchanged, we do appreciate that the material may be considered delicate to the common reader. Nevertheless, we shall move forward with a privately circulated publication of the novel and hope that The Sketch, a long supporter of our press, will remain steadfast in their affection. Enclosed, please find one of the first copies signed by Mr. Lawrence himself, as a gesture of good will.

With many thanks,

Mr. Edward Goldston

Cora re-folded the note and tucked it into the back of the book, wondering why Edith had seemingly rejected the poor man's heartfelt plea. She flipped back to the first pages and read over the darkly printed lettering—

 **Lady Chatterley's Lover**

 **by**

 **D. H. Lawrence**

The novel seemed plain enough, and so Cora, eschewing vague notions of returning to her needlework, toted the find to the more comfortable chair—the one near Robert's desk—and settled down, turning a few more errant blank pages until she reached the title page and began to read:

 _Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen._


	2. Chapter 2

" _He sent a servant to ask, could he be of any service to Lady Chatterley: he thought of driving into Sheffield. The answer came, would he care to go up to Lady Chatterley's sitting-room?"_

Cora wet the tip of her index finger and flipped the page of the already-worn book. It had become, in the course of just two days, her constant companion. Surreptitiously glancing around her own upstairs sitting room, she set the book into her lap for a moment and stretched her arms. Another quiet day in the house had leant itself rather well to her desired task: continuing the story. She'd been reading it only in quiet, private moments, for Cora had realized rather quickly that there must be something rather off about the book if Edith declined reviewing such a popular author. And so the unassuming brown-covered text remained in her sewing box when unused, only traveling to other parts of the house for a few stolen minutes of reading if Cora was quite certain that she'd be left alone.

And so now, having heard the quiet beat of footsteps from down the hall, she looked down at her lap—at the half-folded book—and quickly dog-eared the page before slipping it between the arm of the settee and the cushion. She'd only just covered it with a throw pillow when Mary came bursting into the room with an air of vague displeasure.

"Mama, the children have been downstairs for nearly twenty minutes now."

The click of Mary's tongue confirmed the annoyance etched across her brow and Cora stood, flustered, and smoothed her skirt. "I was reading and lost track of time," she explained.

Mary, looking down for the signs of a book and finding no such thing, frowned and tilted her head to the side. "Oh?"

"Shall we, then?"

Cora, giving Mary no further space for questions, brushed past her daughter and walked with purpose toward the stairs—tamping down the warm blush that she was sure covered both her cheeks.

By the time Robert pushed his way through the door of their upstairs sitting room, he was out of both breath and patience. A thorough search of his dressing room had failed to produce the missing fountain pen and had wasted nearly an hour of his evening. He supposed it did not matter, really. Though the pen had belonged to his papa, such trifling things did have a tendency to eventually get lost.

He sighed, rifling half-heartedly through the drawer in the small chest where he and Cora kept odds and ends. He found: bits of paper with long-forgotten notes and lists scribbled, two sewing needles (one that had rather found him, leaving a prick in his thumb), an old copy of _The Lady_ , and one of his handkerchiefs.

The pen, it seemed, was neither here nor there.

"Just as well," Robert muttered, flopping backward onto the nearest settee.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and lolled his head backward. It had been a trying day. It often seemed like every day since his—his _scare_ had been a trying day. His place in the house was a tenuous one; not that he believed Mary and Tom thought so, but it felt as though he was constantly navigating the line between useful and doddering. But there were bright spots, of course there were. And the image of Cora's visage came into view. He smiled, head still lying backward against the cushions, and though of how wonderful she had been—how wonderful she always was. In the four months since, she had been unparalleled in her efforts to keep his spirits up, to help keep him, and them both, really, useful. He supposed that there might have been a time when her almost blithe attitude toward his recovery would have irked him. But they were too old for such formalities, for such carefulness around one another. They'd grown up together from little more than children, had built something truly worth having, and still _liked_ each other, come to that. Yes—he smiled. He could feel nothing but grateful for the way Cora had helped.

Siting forward with a though of perhaps finding her before the gong, Robert nearly moved to stand, was poised to, in fact, when a sharp corner of something poked against his side. Moving the delicate throw cushion to the side, Robert frowned at the pointy corner of a book that protruded from between the chaise and its arm. He pulled it, rather indelicately, from its place and turned it over in his hands, searching for some marker of identification.

The curiously etched bird on the cover did little to assuage his curiosity, and the title and author printed on the inside cover rang no bells either. So he flipped the book open to a turned-down page and began to read.

His eyes scanned over the page in half-interest, nearly ready to abandon the book when, midway through the second paragraph, he blanched, feeling the tips of his ears suddenly quite warm—

 _She was utterly incapable of resisting it. From her breast flowed the answering, immense yearning over him; she must give him anything, anything._

Robert squirmed in his seat, eyes widening over the illicit language, the salacious prose. Hooking a finger between his neck and collar, he tugged on the too-tight starched cotton, feeling himself quite warm. Quite warm, and, he realized with some embarrassment—quite aroused. Turning his head round the room, making certain that he was still alone, he shifted in his seat once more and turned his attention back to the page:

 _He was a curious and very gentle lover, very gentle with the woman, trembling uncontrollably and yet at the same time detached, aware, aware of every sound outside. To her it meant nothing except that she gave herself to him. And at length he ceased to quiver any more, and lay quite still, quite still. Then, with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay on her breast._

Robert snapped the book closed and stood, face nearly aflame when he looked down and was faced with the evidence of his arousal. It was—it was smut! Heavens, it was obscene. Terribly so. Turning round the room once more as if to shake off his guilt, Robert held the book in front of him, a comical shield over his shame. He looked at the bird on the cover, the bird that seemed to mock him with the obscenities that it peddled. He'd half a mind to throw the thing into the fireplace. But it—well, it was… _modern,_ he supposed. And he was, after all, a modern man.

After giving himself a long moment to _collect_ himself, Robert furtively slipped the book into the left-breast pocket of his jacket and slipped out of the room to find a more discreet reading place.

Robert dismissed Bates early, feigning a headache.

And, indeed, his head ached—but it felt as though nearly every inch of him ached with—with desire. He'd though of nothing but her all evening. During dinner, he stared as her hands, her delicate hands, slipped around the crystal stem of the wine glass. He watched as she laughed, as she smiled, as her eyes fell warmly on him from time to time. Oh, how he wanted her. Desperately so.

He'd spent the afternoon reading and the words, the risqué, filthy words turned over and over in his head. He looked at her, head swimming with them, full to the brim, nearly, and it was all he could do not to take her right then, in some dark corner.

Even now as he tied his robe closed he felt a warmth prickle against the back of his neck, remembering what he'd read.

 _He aroused in the woman a wild sort of compassion and yearning, and a wild craving physical desire…_

… _But then she soon learnt to hold him, to keep him there inside her when his crisis was over. And there he was generous and curiously potent; he stayed firm inside her, given to her, and while she was active…as he felt the frenzy of her achieving her own orgasmic satisfaction from his hard, erect passivity, he had a curious sense of pride and satisfaction._

Robert swung open the door that separated him from Cora, the door that separated him from feeling that same pride, that glorious satisfaction. He failed to suppress a wide grin and was nearly beaming, his body alive with a frisson of excitement, humming with arousal.

Cora did not look up from her place on the floor, knelt in front of her armoire. If she'd heard him enter, or his tentative, _"Cora?"_ she made no attempt to reply.

He tried again, stepping closer still. She turned, glancing backward for a half-second in question, and then continued to rifle through the contents of the bottom drawer: usually where long-forgotten papers, letters and other mementos were kept.

Pursing his lips, Robert perched himself eagerly at the edge of the bed, looking down at his wife's lithe form. God—she was beautiful. And, oh—how she made him feel.

She looked up at him, after a pause, after realizing he was quiet silent, and stared in confusion. "What is it, Robert?"

Robert shook his head. "Nothing, darling. Just waiting for you."

She huffed out a sudden burst of annoyance and muttered: "I've lost something."

"Oh?"

Cora stood, nodding in exasperation, and then peered curiously at her husband who was still staring intently at her. She crossed her arms, feeling somehow exposed, and took a half step backward, leaning against the armoire. She'd gone through her things twice already to no avail. She _knew_ that she'd left the book upstairs. She _knew it._ She was almost certain that she'd not carried it down with her. But—she'd gone back and there had been nothing. And she'd checked the library, the sitting room, _everywhere._ And now, still, nothing.

But he was looking at her.

He smiled.

Oh. Oh—she knew that smile. She was in no mood for such a smile.

"Robert…have you seen? Oh, never mind." She approached the bed tentatively, carefully navigating so that she was just beyond his reach. Slipping under the covers, she watched him, still sitting at the edge of the bed, and smiled softly. "I'm rather tired," she said by way of explanation.

Dropping his mouth open, having clearly not prepared anything else to say, Robert nodded slowly, every so slowly, as if willing himself to understand the words.

"Right. Of course. I—I understand."

He didn't, of course. She could tell by the way he balled up his fists in irritation, the way he dropped his head down in a comically youthful display of petulance. He shrugged off his robe and, mirroring her movements, slipped into bed beside her.

The bed was warm and Robert laid his head against the pillow, stretching his legs as he attempted to find a comfortable place. He could feel a frown still pulling at his features. _Tired. Tired?_ He dared not look at her. All his thoughts from only moments before were jumbled up in a pathetic disarray of feeling, leaving him tingling all over, his limbs jumpy, his mind so _awake._

He could smell her lavender soap, her rosewater shampoo. She was so blessedly _close_ , so perfectly beautiful. He turned onto his side, practically heaving himself atop her, and tilted his head up, eyes fixed on her lovely face.

"Robert—"

Cora grinned, despite herself, and pushed him off, chuckling lightly. "Oh, do stop," she murmured in response to the kissed that he had already begun to press against her neck, one large hand splayed across her stomach under the heavy coverlet, rubbing circles into the gossamer of her nightdress.

"Robert!"

He lifted his head, hair already bedraggled, brows raised. "What?"

"I said that I was tired," she repeated, a fresh bout of annoyance clear in her voice.

"But, Cora—I." He paused, a picture of displeasure, and allowed the silence of the room to wash over them both before he continued slowly, "could you…not be tired?"

A sharp jab of her elbow pulled off the last vestiges of his reverie.

"Ow!"

"Serves you right," she muttered, flipping over and bunching up a pillow.

"You're just cross because you've lost some trifle or other," he grumbled, sitting back up and grabbing a pillow as he stood from their bed.

"Where are you going?"

Frowning, he grabbed a second pillow for good measure and said, "to read!"

Cora watched with some amazement as he stormed off, pillows drooping on either side, and disappeared back into his dressing room, the door snapping closed behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Robert slunk into the library, still toting his pillows at his side. After retrieving his reading material from its place in his bedside drawer, he'd had a momentary pause. Reading such coarse material so close to Cora would certainly lead to no good.

Especially if she insisted on remaining _tired._

The library was comfortably warm, perfectly quiet and just dark enough to be the ideal location for a bit more reading. Eyeing his desk, though, Robert paused once more, eyeing the glistening amber housed within the thick glass decanter. It glowed in the firelight, colors dancing through the etched panes. Just one small glass wouldn't hurt. And, really, he had been feeling much better as of late.

Robert approached the desk carefully, as though the soft tapping of his slippers against the carpet might trip some hidden alarm. He dropped the pillows to onto the floor and settled his book onto the desk. Pulling off the heavy stopper, Robert raised the half-full container and raised it to just below his nose, breathing in appreciatively. Oh, yes—it was the good stuff. He was allowed one small glass when company was over now, and they kept it filled for Tom, and for formality's sake, but he would have been lying to say he was not sorely tempted for a tipple just now.

Sighing with great displeasure, though, Robert replaced the stopper and returned the decanter to its place atop the desk. He thought of Cora again, of how carefully she watched his diet, how desperately she wanted to keep him well, and he took a step back from the desk, grabbing his book and his pillows in search of a comfortable place.

The couch, he decided, was as good a place as any. He knew Carson had finished his last round ages ago. Now that he had a wife to go home to or, rather, a wife to go home with, the schedules had been changed to accommodate a more reasonable hour. But the fire did flicker softly, having been lit to a cracking roar that evening, and Robert settled himself on the cushion nearest to the slowly dying flames.

Repeating his furtive motions of earlier in the day, Robert glanced round the room once more, cracked open his book, and readied himself to pick up the story. He was rather certain that Constance—Lady Chatterley—was about to have some sort of illicit interlude with the groundkeeper of her estate. The man seemed rather a rogue, in Robert's estimation. And he'd a poor grasp of the English language. But Robert considered himself a fairly liberal minded man; he could continue on with the story, even _if_ such a—a scandal was about to occur. Yes, turning his eyes round the empty library once more for good measure, Robert was quite ready to continue the story:

 _'Am Ah t' light yer a little fire?' he asked, with the curious naiveté of the dialect._

 _'Oh, don't bother,' she replied._

 _But he looked at her hands; they were rather blue. So he quickly took some larch twigs to the little brick fire-place in the corner, and in a moment the yellow flame was running up the chimney. He made a place by the brick hearth._

 _'Sit 'ere then a bit, and warm yer,' he said._

 _She obeyed him. He had that curious kind of protective authority she obeyed at once. So she sat and warmed her hands at the blaze, and dropped logs on the fire, whilst outside he was hammering again. She did not really want to sit, poked in a corner by the fire; she would rather have watched from the door, but she was being looked after, so she had to submit._

Robert shifted in his place, humming in quiet curiosity. He held his place, looking up from the page in thought. The groundskeepers at Downton all lived in the village now. And any of the hunting sheds left in the parkland were in rather horrid disrepair. But perhaps it was time for some refurbishments? He thought of the small hut described in the story. The place where that man, Mellors, lived. Where Lady Chatterley went to visit him. He imagined the stone fireplace crammed with logs bringing warmth to the tiny room. He thought of a small rug, soft fur under his bare feet. And he thought of a small bed in the corner of the room, a featherbed covered in quilts and wool and—and underneath all that: Cora.

Certainly it would not take too much effort to restore one of the smaller sheds. It would do him good to have a project to focus his attention on. And, really, it seemed rather foolish not to have the sheds in better order. What if they wanted to host an impromptu week-end hunt? All-day hunts required the use of the sheds.

Oh, yes. Yes, the idea had taken hold.

But for now the idea would have to remain just that. Looking around the dim library, the fire's crackling growing quieter by the minute, Robert turned his attention back to the book, eager to continue before the room was too dark.

He turned the page and read, the ticking of the clock punctuating the silence every few moments, along with soft swishes of turning pages.

 _'Shall you come to the hut?' he said, in a quiet, neutral voice._

 _And closing his hand softly on her upper arm, he drew her up and led her slowly to the hut, not letting go of her till she was inside. Then he cleared aside the chair and table, and took a brown, soldier's blanket from the tool chest, spreading it slowly. She glanced at his face, as she stood motionless. His face was pale and without expression, like that of a man submitting to fate._

 _'You lie there,' he said softly, and he shut the door, so that it was dark, quite dark._

 _With a queer obedience, she lay down on the blanket. Then she felt the soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand touching her body, feeling for her face. The hand stroked her face softly, softly, with infinite soothing and assurance, and at last there was the soft touch of a kiss on her cheek. She lay quite still, in a sort of sleep, in a sort of dream. Then she quivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with queer thwarted clumsiness, among her clothing. Yet the hand knew, too, how to unclothe her where it wanted. He drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet. Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss. And he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft, quiescent body. It was the moment of pure peace for him, the entry into the body of the woman._

"—Good God," Robert muttered aloud. He snapped the book shut, only taking a half-second to mark his page, and looked up, wide-eyed and guilty. He felt his throat quite dry and, not for the first time that day, unaccountably aroused by mere words on a page!

"Steady the buffs, man," he muttered again, chewing nervously at his thumbnail. He eyed the decanter on his desk, feeling suddenly as though he perhaps did need one small drink to calm his nerves.

And he felt his heart thump excitedly against his chest, practically willing him to open the book once more. But the thumping was loud, perhaps too loud. He frowned, shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of fiction. Was it—? No, certainly not—but—

Oh!

With more than some alarm, Robert shoved the small book beneath the cushion beside him, his face still quite alight with embarrassment as the thumping indeed grew louder, only confirming his suspicion. And, not a moment after he'd hidden the source of his arousal, the door to the library creaked open, spilling light from the hallway, and the figure of his wife into the room.

"Robert?"

He was quite sure that the surprise in her face reflected his own. Robert looked up at her in question as she approached, surreptitiously pressing the book further into the arm of the settee. She paused, just in front of him, and smiled curiously.

Robert leaned forward a bit, raising a brow. "I thought you'd gone to sleep ages ago?" He watched as her eyes wandered around the room, as if in search of something.

Cora shook her head, crossing her arms around herself. "I couldn't sleep. I was—looking for something to read," she explained, tentatively stepping closer and then taking a seat beside him. She sighed, seeming somehow resigned, and shrugged a shoulder. "But never mind that."

"Oh?"

Robert did his very best to maintain an air of passive interest, but Cora was suddenly _much_ too close. His fingers were still pressed awkwardly at the top of the book, just the very edge of it still protruding from between the cushions. He swallowed, again feeling his throat rather dry. Her pale hand rested against the cushion between them. He longed to take it, to press his lips to the soft skin there. She would smell like lavender. But—but the book. Oh, it was too close for comfort. It had been a foolish idea to bring it down here; for now she was looking at him, intently so, with a grin and with her lovely twinkling eyes, features bathed in dim firelight.

Robert cleared his throat, the soft rumble breaking the silence between them, and asked, "are you tired?"

Cora shook her head, saying something about feeling restless. But—oh—oh. She was so close, so wonderfully close. Yes, the smell of lavender filled his nose, warm and intoxicating. _Soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand touching her body._ He thought of the cottage in the story, images of Cora wrapped in nothing but silks and furs suddenly returning to view. _Yet the hand knew, too, how to unclothe her where it wanted._ He thought of her writhing beneath him, their cries drowning out the popping fire, the sounds of the forest. _Exquisite pleasure. Exquisite pleasure. Exquisite pleasure._ It was so primal, so—so—

"—Robert?"

She was looking at him, her eyes moving from his face to their hands, the hands that were somehow now twined together. She smiled. And then she smiled again, and he knew that smile. Oh, yes, he knew that smile. He rather loved that smile. Scooting closer, Robert let one hand snake round her waist, drawing her nearer to him, their legs touching, her lips tantalizingly close.

"Yes, darling?"

Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly in a moment of concern over his previous inattention, but her eyes were still alight with mirth. She tilted her head closer, just enough to close the gap between them, and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I said," she repeated, "that I feel too awake to sleep. But I'd still like you to take me back upstairs."

She could have laughed at the way his eyes popped open, the promise of _upstairs_ suddenly enough to catch his attention. She knew what he wanted, knew what he had wanted all evening, really. And the book seemed rather a lost cause. Robert grinned and nearly stood, but Cora watched as he slowed his movements to almost a snail's pace, carefully extricating his hand from hers before slowly, ever so slowly, getting up from his place on the settee and adjusting the throw pillow just-so. He looked so lovely, then, face bright from the flicker of the fire.

"Shall we?" He stood up straight, offering her his hand with great flourish. Accepting the proffered escort with an appreciative nod, Cora looped her arm through his and held him close, suddenly feeling rather silly at having been so harsh with him earlier. It wasn't his fault, of course, that she'd gone and misplaced the blasted thing. And, anyway, tomorrow was another day.

"I'm glad you came down," Robert murmured, leading her out of the room.

"As am I," she whispered. "It was terribly cold in bed by myself."

Robert did not reply, but she felt his grip on her arm tighten, fingers pressing expectantly into the fabric of her dressing gown.

"Perhaps we should have one of the maids look out some of the heavier bedclothes," he suggested, both of them rounding the stairs. "Some of the furs, perhaps?"

She fixed him with a strange look. "Isn't it a bit early for that?"

"No, I don't think so," Robert answered, shaking his head emphatically.

They reached the bedroom door, then, both pausing momentarily outside. Cora smirked, unable to resist the urge at the sight of Robert's boyish grin. He looked so terribly _pleased._

"We can talk about it tomorrow," she reasoned.

He tipped his head in agreement, reaching for the doorknob just behind her. "Yes, we can. But for now, I can think of a few ways to warm the bed."

"Oh can you?" Cora's laughter floated out of the room as the door clicked shut behind them.

"Indeed, I can," Robert assured her, wasting no time in guiding them both to the bed. If Cora was surprised by Robert's sudden robust burst of energy, she did not show it. She was still rather distracted, even as he laid her against the mattress and began to draw up her nightdress. She focused on the rough of his hands, his palms spread out against her sides. She wondered for one delicious moment if _this_ was how Lady Chatterley felt—desired and free and oh—

Yes. Yes, she thought, arching her back into Robert's touch, closing her eyes and suddenly thinking of that small woodshed from the book, of that brusque man with the thrilling accent. Yes, this is how it would feel.

And she realized with a start, a jolt of pleasure coursing through her, Robert's hands suddenly rather forceful in their movements, his breath hot on her neck, whispering words she could barely make out, that she rather liked it.

But, more pressing than that—she _needed_ that book back.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning found the breakfast table abnormally full. Tom and Mary were deep in conversation at the far end, teacups clattering against saucers as they discussed the best location for the new garage, and Robert, Edith, and Cora were ensconced comfortably at the other end—attempting as best they could to hold a quiet conversation over the chatter of business occurring beside them.

Edith, though she interjected every few comments, was pages into a letter, perusing intently as her parents continued to discuss their respective plans for the day. They both looked up at her with some interest, however, when she paused at the end of the letter and heaved a great sigh, resting the words against the table in mock defeat.

"Is something the matter, darling?" Her mother smiled reassuringly, and raised a brow in question.

Edith only shook her head. "No, not particularly, Mama."

"—You do look rather glum," her father added, peering over his teacup.

"Just business," she answered, holding up the letter. "You see I promised to review this book in the magazine's next issue, or at least consider reviewing it, but—and you'll think me rather foolish, now—I seem to have lost it."

Robert frowned. "You lost it? However did you manage that?" he asked blithely.

Cora, frowning too—though for an entirely different reason—gulped a sip of tea, feeling the warm liquid sting her mouth, and then smiled wider, her features frozen in near horror as Edith began to regale her parents with the story of a Mister D. H. Lawrence's new novel, a most inappropriate tome that she was tasked with reading and possibly reviewing. The Sketch wasn't likely going to publish the review, of course, but Edith wanted to at least read it before giving the final say. She continued on, then, talking about the author and the hullabaloo that the book had been stirring up in London.

Cora felt her face tingle, a blush creeping just below the surface, as she remembered the letter, remembered the words tucked into her illicit novel.

 _Nevertheless, we shall move forward…and hope that The Sketch, a long supporter of our press... Enclosed, please find one of the first copies signed by Mr. Lawrence…_

Edith was still talking. Cora, not daring to cast a gaze upon her husband, stood suddenly, the room feeling endlessly warm—endlessly warm and entirely too small for anyone's comfort—and muttered something about an early meeting at the hospital.

She was out of the room before Edith could inquire further, and before Robert could notice pink-tipped ears that matched his own.

By the time the tea was served in the library that afternoon, Cora was in rather a state. She'd turned over the library twice, the upstairs sitting room for over an hour, and even—in desperation—her bedroom. Nowhere—it was nowhere to be found.

And the words, oh how they turned over her head.

 _a wild, craving physical desire._

 _quiver of exquisite pleasure_

 _It was the moment of pure peace for him, the entry into the body of the woman._

Oh!

Cora felt the teacup settled in her lap shake, her unsteady limbs no fit place to rest.

"Mama?" came Mary's voice, questioning, vaguely interested.

"I'm fine," Cora assured, waving her hand in a display of nonchalance.

Mary only raised a brow and turned her attention back to George, who sat on the floor beside them, prancing his wooden horses across the carpet as his mother smiled benevolently at him. The girls lay on the carpet, too, a few feet off, Sybbie working intently on a puzzle as Marigold looked on raptly, wide-eyes admiring her older cousin.

The inhabitants of the library were blissfully occupied, and for that Cora was endlessly thankful. It made her escape from the library much easier. Though even the brief respite of silence in the hall was short-lived. For just as Cora rounded the corner toward the staircase, she caught sight of Anna at the foot of the stairs, too, holding a—a stack, yes, a _stack_ of books in her arm. And piled at the top, mocking her, beckoning her, sat the little brown book she'd torn the house apart in search of.

"Anna!"

There was no time for decorum, and Cora strode toward her destination with a kind smile plastered across her face, willing herself not to shout in excitement, or horror, perhaps, at the reappearance of the damned book.

"Milady?"

Cora smiled again, if not a bit manically this time, and plucked the book from its tenuous place, tucking it under her arm as she explained, "I've been looking for this—it's a—a new manual for the hospital."

If Anna knew that her words were untrue, the maid's face displayed no knowledge of it. She only bobbed her head in response, and readjusted the rest of the books in her hold. "Mrs. Hughes found these in the library, Milady. She thought they were Lady Edith's. But I'll return them to the library, then?"

"No, no, Lady Edith's room is fine," Cora answered, already standing at the foot of the stairs, poised to make yet another escape. "I—I'll just take this one with me. I've not the faintest idea how it got mixed in with all the rest."

Another nod. "Milady."

Sparing not one moment more, Cora bounded stairs, legs working mechanistically against any good sense, drawing her closer to her destination, prize in hand.

Silence. And, oh—yes. It was marvelous. Exhaling as she shut her bedroom door behind her, Cora felt her fingertips tingle with excitement, anticipation. Words turning over and over, driving her to distraction—now finally: relief. Settling into the window seat at the far end of the room, Cora flipped open the cover to continue where she left off. Though she failed to notice the dog-eared page in chapter twelve, the place where Robert had left off only a night earlier, she thumbed through the small text until she found her desired location once again.

And with great relish she began to read, pursing her lips and imbibing the words, rejoining Connie and Mellors as they awoke from another illicit interlude.

 _He looked down at her._

 _'Tha knows what tha knows. What dost ax for!' he said, a little fretfully._

 _'I want you to keep me, not to let me go,' she said._

 _His eyes seemed full of a warm, soft darkness that could not think._

 _'When? Now?'_

 _'Now in your heart. Then I want to come and live with you, always, soon.'_

 _He sat naked on the bed, with his head dropped, unable to think._

 _'Don't you want it?' she asked._

 _'Ay!' he said._

 _Then with the same eyes darkened with another flame of consciousness, almost like sleep, he looked at her…_

Robert felt a gust of warm air against his wind-chapped skin as he and Tiaa spilled into the main hall, breathless and chilled from their long afternoon walk.

"Pleasant walk, Milord?" Carson inquired as he took the coat that Robert shrugged off and the hat removed from his head.

Robert, who had hardly noticed the chipper whistle coming from his own lips, grinned in affirmation. "Indeed, Carson, indeed. I walked across the west parkland to see about those old hunting sheds that I mentioned this morning, in fact. And I think one in particular will be quite suitable for guests. With a bit of refurbishment, of course."

"Very good, Milord."

"Carson, is the library cleared out?" Robert asked, running a hand through his mussed hair as he motioned for Tiaa to sit beside him. The dog listened with the brief attention befitting a puppy, stopping for a moment before frolicking off in the direction of the Servant's Hall, no doubt in search of treats. "Only I wanted to get to some paperwork from my desk," he explained vaguely, rolling his eyes at the misbehaved pup.

"Yes, Milord, I believe so. At least, I know Lady Mary brought the children to Nanny soon after tea."

Robert paused, his whistle petering off into a stream of silent air. "What?" He shook his head, then, knowing the question dumb, and rephrased, "that is, I thought Lady Mary and Lady Edith were taking the children into York for the day—for new clothes."

Carson tipped his head in disagreement and cleared his throat. "I believe that is the plan for _tomorrow_ , Milord."

Robert, feeling his throat prickle and his collar unaccountably tight, racked his brain for the week's schedule. He turned his gaze up toward the ceiling, eyes scanning the intricate details as he tried to recall—recall anything!

But his mind was horribly empty. Empty except for flashes of sticking a small brown book into the side of the settee in the library, assured that it would remain undisturbed all day, assured that he could simply _remove_ the offending piece of literature before anyone was the wiser.

But—oh. Oh, no. No, they'd been in the library all afternoon. And now—now his brain was full of horrid musings of an entirely different sort.

 _'You must take off your pyjamas too,' she said._

– _a wild, craving physical desire._

 _'Eh, nay!'_

 _'Yes! Yes!' she commanded._

– _a wild, craving physical desire._

 _And he took off his old cotton pyjama-jacket, and pushed down the trousers._

– _a wild, craving physical desire._

Oh!

If Carson knew that something was not quite right, his face displayed no knowledge of it. And when Robert excused himself to the library, mumbling as he removed himself, red-faced, from the hall, Carson said no more about it—disappearing behind the door to the servant's hall soon after a click of the library door sounded out.

Silence. And, oh, it was horrid—deafening and horrid. The library was entirely empty and as Robert approached the settee with great trepidation, he felt his fingers tingle anxiously, somehow already knowing that it had all gone horribly wrong.

And, indeed, as he pulled the cushion from its place, finding the space between the cushion and settee-arm wretchedly empty, Robert swore softly and felt the glorious imaginings of only the night before, and even this very afternoon, dissipating into thin air right before him—the flicker of a flame suddenly extinguished.


	5. Chapter 5

Robert trod heavily through the main hall, a late autumn breeze at his back. It had been another long day of tenant meetings, he following behind Tom and Mary—everyone careful not to rouse him into excitement. But he _was_ roused. And he had been for days now.

It was just—he paused, looking into the drawing room (finding it empty); it was only that he'd been rather on edge. And the source of it? Well, that was just it. Why on earth would some blasted book conspire to put him in such a foul mood? It was not the book, not really. How could it be, after all, when the book had been lost to him for over a week now?

Wandering past the library, he thought—not for the first time that week—that it was a trifling thing to be vexed over. But it was _other_ things, too. Tom and Mary had been painfully superior today; he knew they did not mean to. And he reminded himself, wandering into the library and pulling on the cord, that they were doing a good job. But, oh, how he hated to be _informed_ of things, to be clued in, like some dull child.

Even that, though, was not it. Cora had been annoyingly absent this week, spending most days in the hospital offices pouring over paperwork and meeting with various boring characters from York. He'd gone into the village one afternoon early in the week to take her to lunch and she'd been too busy. Too busy!

Robert laid his head back against the settee and exhaled with great relish. Too busy. He'd wanted to take her to see the work on the hunting shed, but they'd never found the time. And even that idea seemed silly now. He rolled his eyes at nothing in particular, staring up at the ceiling, and wondered with some concern when the last time he was busy even was? His days were long, yes, but he felt at times the weight of his tasks was quite different than once it was. Instead of exhausting from negotiations, from staring at columns of numbers in his ledgers, he felt the exhaustion of a monument being paraded around—the weight of becoming ineffectual and impotent.

Robert closed his eyes and tried to tamp down the flickering anger he felt in his belly, the tiny flames of irritation that licked at his insides when he stopped to consider his place in the house. He focused instead on the steady _tick tick tick_ of the clock on the mantle, breathing in and out in time with its sound.

But—

It was not only a _tick tick tick_ that filled the room. Robert cracked his eyes open and furrowed his brow, realizing another noise in the room had begun to drown out his rhythmic clock. He sat up. It was a _thump_. No, no—it was a _scratch_?

Yes, it was a scratching sound that roused him then, and he stood, curious, and peered around the room.

The culprit was not hard to find. For all her merits: her burgeoning loyalty, spirited bark, and boundless enthusiasm, Tiaa Crawley was _not_ a particularly skilled burglar. And so she sat, quite out in the open, in her basket, chewing on her latest prize.

Robert approached her with considerable exasperation, having already lost two pairs of shoes to her tiny teeth that week, and clicked his tongue loudly, about to issue a strong rebuke.

But—

He looked down, standing at the foot of her basket, and felt his eyes widen in disbelief.

Oh—oh!

Could such a jewel truly lay just at his feet? So carelessly discarded? Tiaa was clever, certainly, but what—what simpleton would leave this masterpiece where anyone could get to it? He knew not where it had come from, but that was no matter now. Robert reached down and snatched the small brown book from the wicker basket, ignoring Tiaa's yelp of displeasure, and clapped a hand against his thigh in delight.

"Well _done,_ little one!"

The small dog looked up at him curiously, yawning in reply.

He flipped open the cover to inspect for damage, finding only a few errant teeth marks on the edge of the binding, and grinned despite himself.

"I knew I'd trained you well," he muttered, already wandering away from Tiaa's corner back toward the couch. Eyes wandering furtively round the room, Robert glanced down at the book, up toward the door, and then back down to the book again.

No, the library was no safe place. No indeed. It was in this blasted room that he'd lost the thing in the first place. But not again. No—never again! He grinned once more, a chuckle rumbling from his throat, and allowed this surge of delight to carry him out of the room toward the staircase. Silence, he needed silence. And silence he would have.

When Cora awoke the next morning, it was with some confusion that her hand—reaching out for her husband—met the cool pillow beside her. Robert had behaved strangely all the last evening. He'd skipped dinner, claiming a headache, and then had not come to bed, even after promising her that he would _once he was finished reading_. She remembered, then, falling asleep with her own book, _Pride and Prejudice_ ,in her lap. But, well, that _had_ been rather dull compared to what she'd finally finished last week. Now _that_ had kept her awake.

But thatwas no matter now. What mattered, Cora thought, forcing herself up and away from the pillow, was that something was quite wrong with Robert. Quite wrong indeed.

And that fact seemed plainer when Cora rounded the stairs an hour later in pursuit of her husband, only to find him fiddling with his overcoat and hat in the main hall, Tiaa nipping at his heels.

"Robert?"

Cora's voice sounded out through the foyer, catching the attention of both her husband and his tiny charge.

"Cora—" He smiled, shooing Tiaa, and approached her. "I was just about to go look for you."

"Well, you've found me," she answered. He smiled again as their eyes met, a most curious greeting, Cora thought, considering his sickness of only the night before. But she remained silent on that matter.

"I'm going out for a walk and want you to come," he explained simply—his eyes shining with an excitement that Cora could not quite place. She watched as Robert looped his scarf into a lazy knot.

"Are you feeling quiet up to it, darling?"

He nodded.

"I'm feeling much better, and rather lively, actually."

"Oh?"

He nodded again.

"Yes, indeed."

Cora hummed in agreement. "Well, I suppose I could do with a bit of fresh air."

Offering his arm to her, then, he gripped her hand, his gloved palm warm against her own, and led her toward the mudroom in search of a coat.

"I was worried when you didn't come to bed last night," she commented, murmuring a _thank you_ as he held out her coat to slide an arm into.

He chuckled, softly, and then held the other arm out. "I am sorry about that, my dear. I was up late reading. Though I finished my book—"

"I assumed," Cora replied.

"And, it was much too late by the time I'd finished. I popped my head in but you were asleep, so I went back to read over another part—"

Robert trailed off, then, watching as Cora pulled her walking hat off a nearby shelf.

"What is it?" Cora asked, fidgeting uncomfortably under his attentions, feeling a slight heat prickle at her neck.

"Nothing," he murmured. "Just admiring you."

Cora smiled curiously in response, taking Robert's proffered arm once more, and allowed him to lead her out the front door. If Cora was discomfited by his sudden desire for fresh air, and the strength with which he held her fingers within his own, she did not say. She only listened as he began to chatter on about a _surprise_ , and wondered briefly why he insisted they leave little Tiaa behind.

Robert felt rather light-footed as he strode across the parkland with Cora on his arm. When Carson had approached him that morning to say that Mr. Andrews had finished work on the hunting shed, it had seemed entirely serendipitous. After all, he'd only completed the story last night.

He thought of Lady Chatterley—Connie—and Mellors, the rogue. They were certainly happy enough in that little shed. And now he, he and Cora, had their own little cottage. Although the excitement would perhaps be lost on Cora (he dared not tell her of the book), he supposed that his excitement would be enough for them both.

And so he remained largely silent as they walked on companionably, arm in arm, toward his unnamed destination.

Robert saw the cottage in the distance before Cora did; his eyes had been scanning the wooded copse for several moments now, and though Cora was deep into a story about the children—George having said this or that—he'd not the faintest idea what she was talking about. For, _there_! There it was. Oh, it was perfect. They ambled down the hill, Cora pausing in her story to slow her pace and lift her skirt a bit, just for safety's sake, and she clutched tightly to his hand.

"Robert is this safe? You know I hate to leave the path," she muttered, pushing an errant tree branch out of their way. "Perfectly safe," he replied, eyes fixed on the little door.

And he stopped, then, just as they trudged down the final slope and greeted the flat land. He smiled and held up a hand in great flourish. "Look—"

Cora turned round, taking in the great mass of trees, the verdant green canopy that surrounded them. She listened to the errant chirping of a bird, and breathed in a gulp of crisp autumn air. But, _look?_ At what? What was so important that they had trekked down a near cliff to reach it? She began to turn around, a sharp word on the tip of her tongue, but then, oh, then she saw—

It was one of the cottages. One of the dilapidated old hunting sheds, she supposed. Robert was still smiling, his eyes vacillating between her and the tiny shed, and Cora couldn't help but fix her gaze on the little structure, feeling suddenly a pull of memory, the tingle of words that had been so very _alive_ as she'd read those pages.

 _The game-keeper's picturesque little home was in sight…A rather dark, brown stone cottage, with gables and a handsome chimney, looked uninhabited, it was so silent and alone. But a thread of smoke rose from the chimney, and the little railed-in garden in the front of the house was dug and kept very tidy. The door was shut._

Oh—yes, yes, this was nearly it! She took a step forward, only a half step, and peered at the little windows, at the door and path that looked remarkably well kept. She couldn't remember the last time Robert had hosted a hunt out here. But—oh, suddenly she wished desperately to go inside. She thought of Connie and Mellors, thought of the things they'd gotten up to in the cottage, the salacious images still fresh in her mind.

But, goodness—no. Oh, Robert would think her terribly profane if ever he knew. And so she turned, instead, and smiled, adopting an air of innocence. "One of the hunting sheds?"

Robert nodded, his grin one of exaltation, and reached to take her hand once more. "I've had Andrews fix it up—"

"—For hunting?"

Robert felt Cora's grip on his arm tighten, her steps guiding them closer to the door. Her voice sounded strange, somehow, and faraway. But, well—he felt himself, too, pulled toward the door, and thought little of anything beyond the words on those pages, the glorious pages—

 _A rather dark, brown stone cottage_

 _With a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body_

 _The door was shut_

 _It was so silent and alone._

 _Exquisite pleasure—_ oh—oh, yes— _exquisite pleasure_

They stood at the entrance and Robert reached for the knob, drawing a hum of confusion from Cora.

"You mean it's already done?"

Her face was incredulous, Robert was pleased to see; she looked shocked, but pleasantly so, and allowed him to lead her into the tiny space.

And indeed, the cottage was dark, the stone walls and new drapes—a modest wine colored fabric—colluding to keep the light out. The bare floor, scratched wood recycled from the former structure, creaked pleasantly as they spilled into the center of the room and Robert reached for a lantern, turning the lamp on and feeling himself somehow drawn backward into the past.

"What is all this?" Cora laughed, crossing her arms.

Robert didn't answer, only chuckled in response and reached for another lantern. Once he'd turned that one up, too, he set his attention to the small wood stove. The room was tiny, space enough only for a metal stove, a basket of wood, and—perhaps most surprisingly of all—a well-appointed cot against the far wall covered in a fur blanket.

Oh if he only knew, she thought, if he only knew the images called to mind, the sinful words that she had read with such relish. Oh, yes, he would be quite scandalized.

They were quiet, breathing in the scent of peppery wood and relishing the moment of veritable silence.

And then he stepped closer, his smile suddenly more focused—his gaze intent.

"Perhaps we should go now," Cora murmured, feeling Robert's hands take up her own once more. The cottage was small enough to heat quickly, even with only the aid of the tiny appliance. But it was his hands; his lovely hands that warmed her, his skin soft and so terribly warm. Oh, yes, this was pleasure— _exquisite pleasure._

He leaned down, his lips just below her ear, and she felt his smile against her skin. His voice rumbled quietly in the stillness of the room. "Do you want to go?"

 _Exquisite pleasure_ , yes, this was it and she was so terribly breathless all of a sudden. She shook her head, feeling her hat bump against Robert's brow, and then his hands moved away from hers, and pressed hotly against her cheeks before pulling the hat up and away. He tossed it gently toward the foot of the cot, and then turned his attention back to her. And she felt then, felt with his gaze fixed on her, so wonderfully warm.

" _Cora—"_

" _Darling?"_

His hands were on her in an instant, and his lips found hers, their bodies toppling backward until her back was pressed up against the stone wall of the cottage. He kissed her gently, warm, wet kisses that made her spine tingle in anticipation as his lips, his beautiful lips, applied themselves to her neck, the pearls of his teeth grazing the skin there.

Was this it? Oh—oh, was this how it felt? Cora thought of the dark brown stone cottage, of the man with the rough words and brusque manner. Robert's hands slipped beneath her overcoat, pulling urgently at buttons until the garment yielded, and she thought of the exquisite pleasure of sin, the lustful urges of men and women—

 _And he bent over her and kissed her, and she felt, so he must kiss her for ever._

Yes—yes, how she wanted to kiss him forever, how she wanted to hold onto him forever. How could this (for now Robert's hands were beneath her blouse, warm palms pressed to her sides, against her belly), how could this feel wrong? And if it was sin, Cora considered dimly, her husband rasping her name against her throat, well—she would happily set them both aflame for such exquisite pleasure.

Gold buttons tinkled against the floor as they fell from the threads of her silk blouse, Robert's hands inexpertly pulling, pulling, and pulling.

" _Darling—"_

He'd pushed her against the wall, their bodies close enough for her to feel him, hard, pressed against her, and she fumbled with his own habiliments, layers of thick tweed falling round them as he rocked against her, grunting with pleasure and practically rutting against her.

The smoothness of her skin against his calloused palms was heavenly, exquisite, and Robert buried his head in her neck, the scent of her perfume overwhelming. A chill brushed against his back, his vest falling by the wayside, and Cora moved to his shirt buttons, unclasping them one by one until his chest was exposed.

They paused then, just for a moment, and Robert pressed his lips to her forehead, Cora's hands moving beneath his opened shirt to envelope him in a tight embrace. She was small beneath him, though she _always_ was, and he thought again of the words, the words that ran exhaustively through his head—the arousing, vulgar words that he wanted to whisper into her ear, whisper against her beautiful skin, marking her and making her sinful right along with him. Oh—oh, she was so beautiful, and he wanted her so much.

 _She was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oakwood, humming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds of desire were asleep in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body._

She whispered his name and he felt himself, painfully hard, grow nearly dizzy at the sight of her unclasping her chemise, exposing her breasts in the relative darkness of the room.

Feeling unaccountably bashful, thinking _if he only knew_ , Cora moved to cross her arms, to cover her exposed skin, but Robert reached out to stop her, his fingers brushing against her arm, against the gentle slope of her waist, and then around and over the dusky pink of her nipples.

 _The quiver was going through the man's body, as the stream of consciousness again changed its direction, turning downwards. And he was helpless—helpless—helpless._

He slipped out of his trousers, shoes having been kicked off carelessly, and allowed Cora to pull him to her again. Her fingers, her delicate fingers, moved to the buttons of his pants, and he hissed out a garbled profanity, his breath heavy as she moved her hand against him, taking his manhood into her soft palm.

"Good Lord, oh—Cora—oh, _exquisite—"_

Robert bit the inside of his cheek, eyes squeezed shut, and his head lolled backward, feeling himself helpless under her delicate ministrations. She murmured his name and his heart thundered against his chest.

Oh, he was beautiful, strong and so beautifully masculine, and as Cora felt her back press back against the stones and Robert's fingers—finally having regained some consciousness—tear away the silk of her undergarments, she bit back a profanity of her own, the exquisite pleasure of his fingers against her thigh and then—oh, oh—against her wetness. Yes, this was exquisite, exquisite pleasure.

 _A man! The strange potency of manhood upon her!_

His movements had begun to grow frantic, his hands strong as they held her close, and then he moved to hook an arm under one of her legs. He looked at her, eyes dark and aroused, and she nodded without being asked, her silent assent enough for Robert as he guided himself into her, whimpering with pleasure as he moved against her, potent and so exquisitely aroused.

 _How lovely, how lovely, strong, and yet pure and delicate, such stillness of the sensitive body! Such utter stillness of potency and delicate flesh._

 _How beautiful! How beautiful! Her hands came timorously down his back, to the soft, smallish globes of the buttocks. Beauty! What beauty!_

 _A sudden little flame of new awareness went through her._

A flame, yes—yes—yes, it was a flame. Robert felt himself grow hotter, his bare chest pressed to Cora's breasts, her leg hooked round his waist now as he pushed into her over and over and over and oh—exquisite. _"Cora—Jesus—Oh—Oh—Fuck—Fuck—"_

The words passed through his lips as though disembodied; he felt his face flame at the sound but could not stop, and felt himself only grow harder at the sound of Cora's gasp, unaware of whether or not she had even heard the deliciously vulgar word. But he caught sight of her eyes, bright, aware, and he knew that she'd heard. And he knew, then, as he felt her nails press into his skin, her voice crying out his name, that she'd enjoyed it.

That realization was nearly his undoing, and he stilled his movements for only just a second, only for a breath of air, but Cora pressed her heel into his buttocks, impatiently so, and kissed him hungrily, encouraging him to continue. He kissed her and kissed her, and tangled his fingers into her loosened hair, and whispered, then, knowing that such a chance might _never_ come again, that such nerve might _never_ come over him again, "Cora, darling, oh—say it? Won't you?"

And she knew what he wanted her to say, for the words had nearly drowned her, had flooded her pounding chest, had prickled at the back of her mind ever since she'd read that book, that marvelous, exquisite, filthy book. And—oh, she'd not the strength to pretend she'd not heard his request; for, really, she wanted to, wanted to feel herself say it, wanted to see the look on his face as she said it. And so she did.

" _Fuck—fuck—fuck—oh, fuck, Robert, oh—"_

It sounded like a prayer hot on her lips, hot and obscene and he'd never been with her like this, so wantonly and he did want her, oh—he did. Beads of sweat collected against his brow as he thrust into her, feeling the heat and wetness of her almost overwhelming against his already fevered skin—

"Cora, we—ah—we—we've—"

"Darling, yes, yes—"

And it came over him, then, like a match to a flame, and as he felt her contract around him, the words passed his lips in passionate delirium.

"Cora—oh, Cora, God—we've fucked a flame into being—"

And then there was silence.

Silence.

Silence.

He felt her body tense. Her arms, the arms that had only just been boneless against him, fidgeted and her head rose from his shoulder. Their bodies were slick with perspiration and her hair had come comically undone, curls bouncing lazily against her own shoulder.

"What did you say?"

He blushed, though his body was cooling, and shrugged, already feeling his muscles ache in protest as his manhood slipped from her. "I, well, that is. It just came to me—in the moment."

Cora's mouth dropped open, and she shook her head incredulously.

"I should have known. Oh! Oh, I should have known."

His heart palpitated nervously. "Known?"

Her eyes focused back on him, full of mirth and—and of something. "You! You were the one who took my book," she exclaimed.

It dawned on him, then, and he laughed loudly. "Your book. Your book! Cora, God, Cora, _you_ read that?"

She nodded, brows rising in question. _"_ And _you_ read that, Robert?"

"Well, I, uh. I may have glanced at a few pages."

Cora chortled, allowing her head to press against the blessedly cool stones, and then settled her gaze on the room around them. "Oh, darling. You did all this." She smiled warmly, so warmly, both of them grinning dumbly at the flickering lamps, at their limp bodies, at the piles of rumpled clothes collected around them.

"My very own gamekeeper," she murmured, bringing a hand up to stroke against his cheek.

Robert kissed her palm and then curled his fingers gently round her wrist, tugging her toward the bed. The room, perhaps having only been warmed by their activities, felt decidedly colder, and Robert pulled back the furs on the bed so that they could both slip beneath.

They lay side-by-side, fingers entwined beneath the thick coverlet, and stared up at the dark wooden ceiling, both blinking in a shared wonderment.

"Did you really read _all_ of that, darling?" He was sheepish, and couldn't help but grin at the prospect.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Cora hummed, squeezing his hand in response.

"My very own Lady Chatterley," he mused, face still turned toward the ceiling. When he heard her chuckle in response, though, Robert turned onto his side, feeling himself overcome again at the sight of her, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "My very own Cora," he amended.

Cora curled her body toward her husband, and leaned forward to kiss his lips. "Exquisite," she whispered, "just exquisite."

 _And they won't be able to blow out my wanting you, nor the little glow there is between you and me. We'll be together next year. And though I'm frightened, I believe in your being with me. A man has to fend and fettle for the best, and then trust in something beyond himself. You can't insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it. So I believe in the little flame between us. For me now, it's the only thing in the world._


End file.
